John Constantine, Hellblazer: Children of the Grave
by ixnay0002
Summary: The first volume in an ongoing series, set before Peter Milligan's run on Hellblazer began. John Constantine's ex-lovers are being murdered by a face from his past, which forces him to reconnect with an old friend, an old flame, and a very personal nightmare.
1. Chapter 1: A Kiss Before Dying

**John Constantine, Hellblazer  
Volume 1: Children of the Grave**

 **Written by Chris Munn**

 **Chapter One: "A Kiss Before Dying"**

Keys jangled as they hit the oak-finished table, sliding to a stop across the slick surface of the wood. With a sigh releasing from her lips as she walked through the hall, a light jacket slung over her arm that had been discarded once the morning's biting chill had subsided, Marjorie clicked on the kitchen light in her Brixton flat. Bills pulled from the mailbox made their way round-filed into the bin, envelopes marked "final notice" ignored. She could barely make her rent, let alone make the credit card payments to the collection agencies nipping at her heels at seemingly every waking hour.

Marj was an aged hipster, a flower goddess faded from glory and adventures long forgotten. Her daughter had long abandoned her for the light and free sex of Paris, leaving her a lonely independent woman that had let a dead husband and a lost love mark her like a scarlet letter. Marj had sold out, given up her nomadic ways for a monthly rent check and a nightly routine of reality television.

It had been eighteen years since she last saw John Constantine.

Marj gasped when she finished her rifle through of the mail, the last being a postcard emblazoned with an image of the Eiffel Tower. Had her daughter Mercury finally forgiven her for the imagined trespass against her seven years prior? Was she finally coming home to save her poor mother from her slow suicide of a life?

Quickly she turned over the postcard, heart beating near out of her chest. On the back, instead of the words she so longed to hear (words like "I love you, Mum" or "I'm coming home, Mum"), were three bold letters.

 **RUN**

As if on cue, the kitchen light blinked off, blanketing the house in a cloak of midnight darkness. Marj gasped as the postcard fell from her hand, a chill running up her spine like a razor blade. She still had nightmares about the Fear Machine and the demon that John and Mercury had fought on that cold Scottish night. This wasn't a dream, she realized, and groped around in the darkness for the closest weapon.

Her fingers wrapped around the handle of a dirty bread-knife in the sink, slicing the air as she pulled it close to her chest defensively. "You don't frighten me," she challenged the darkness, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her. "Come the frig on!"

She stepped into the hallway, the light from the street lamp outside providing an unearthly glow through the small windows framing her front door. The black night moved, wrapping around her like a cloak or a coiled hissing snake. She swiped once, twice with the bread-knife to no result. She stopped when she felt the sticky wetness on her neck.

"Your love is my weapon," a voice whispered into her ear.

Marj fell forward, blood rupturing from the wound to her throat. "John," she whispered with her last breath. The attacker stood behind her, smiling a row of razors.

"Don't fret, Marj," it said, "you'll soon have lots of company…"

* * *

"So this your stop then, mate?"

Chas Chandler applied pressure to the brake of his hackney cab, skidding to a stop on the soggy London street side. The hand brake was engaged, but no motion was made toward the fare meter on his dash. The occupant had never – and would never – pay for a ride. It was one of the many favors owed him by Chas, something the occupant had never – and would never – let him forget. "That'll be twenty quid," he ordered with a wry smirk.

"Extortion's _my_ game, Chas," the occupant replied, "stick with what you're good at, shagging grandmas and being an all-around wet-noodled git."

"Ah, flash your soddin' ash outside," Chandler commented as his best mate opened the door to exit the taxi.

John Constantine, all smoke and sorcery, stepped onto the curb and waved his partner farewell. Chas was a good man despite himself, but tonight wasn't for him. No, tonight was for the _real_ bastards. As much as he sometimes wished otherwise, that was an apt description for Constantine, a man that had always been more than willing to throw his friends under the bus to save his own skin. Somehow, Chas had survived the minefield that was John Constantine's life, but why press his luck when he didn't have to?

"One is the loneliest fucking number."

Constantine paused at the door to the Southampton apartment block, taking the time to spark up a Silk Cut before making his entrance. Magic was 80% appearance, and the smoky mystique he'd worked hard to establish was still solid as granite. Still, it wouldn't do for him to look nervous when he walked in; no, he needed to be boss, the king fuck of swagger. The tossers deserved nothing less.

"Evenin' squire," John said as he entered the 111A flat, his fingers flicking ash onto the newly-installed Persian carpet trodden by his feet. The skinny Birkenstock sitting on the couch, hookah gripped in his hands, let loose with an irrepressible fit of coughs from the surprise.

"Con-Constantine…!" he choked out, fighting back the tears in his eyes. "What kin I do for ya, man?"

"I hear you have a relic of interesting pedigree, Shocka," John answered, taking a moment to run his fingertips across the African fertility god statue that stood with pride, massive cock and all, on the mantle. "Something about a haunted piece of paraphernalia, right?"

Narcisse "Shocka" Soule was an expatriated witch doctor from New Orleans, born of a bizarre mix of French and Prussian blood. The mutt had been making his name in London over the past six months, selling items nicked from his voudon instructors back in 'Nawlins'. This was the first time he'd met John Constantine, but any mage worth his salt, from dabbler up through magus, knew the name.

They knew and _feared_ the name.

"Sure, yeah, sure," Soule scrambled from the couch to the nearby bureau, digging hastily through the top drawer. What he produced was a needle black from blood dried inside, a spoon that looked as if it had been forged in a blast furnace, and a piece of rubber tubing notched with arcane symbols. "I couldn't believe the find; I mean, it's the actual needle Jim Morrison used to shoot demon piss into his optic nerves! JKF used it to inject Marilyn with the semen of a Rape Master for Christ's sake!"

"You used it yet?" John asked, taking the artifacts in hand for inspection.

"Well, you can't just shoot fuckin' heroin with it, right?" Shocka replied. "I had a line on some virgin's tears peddled down in Whitechapel, but turned out to be doodly squat."

"Right, then," Constantine offered in response, "I'll just be taking this meself, 'less you got something to offer in trade. Sorry 'bout yer luck, mate."

Soule's fear turned to anger in the span of a heartbeat, his hand moved to intercept John's as he placed the instruments inside his coat pocket. "Wait, c'mon now! We can make a deal or something, right?"

John scowled at the hand placed upon his wrist. "Welcome to the free market, Shocka. Move the hand or bloody well lose it."

"But, Constantine…" Soule stammered, "what if I told you about this bitch, up in Brixton, right? Bloody well had her friggin' head ripped off I heard! What if I gave you the line on shit like that, on a regular basis like? She was hexed, I swear, before she got done in!"

"Sounds like a right stunner," John said as he turned to leave, "I'll drink to the bird's honor tonight. Be good, Shocka."

Soule slumped onto his patent leather couch, weighed down by the world shitting on him yet again. To the victor goes the spoils, John thought as he started up the street toward Longshanks, ready for a piss up that would make the angels take notice. Still, the hexed girl was filed away in his mind; never knew when such things would come in handy.

* * *

Her name was Mercury, and she was running for her life.

Eighteen years ago, she and her mother met a man named John Constantine in the wilds of Glastonbury Tor. Merc was nine years old then, her psychic power blossoming into something beyond her control. She was a spooky kid, the kind that made cats hiss and adults squirm, but John had taken to her right away. It wasn't long after that they destroyed the so-called "Fear Machine", her and John and the strange woman named Zed. John left them afterward, and as she grew older she heard the odd rumor or story about him. She'd heard about the cancer and the trick played on Hell, about the little girl dragged down to the place of devils, and finally she heard he'd died in an American prison a few years ago.

Mercury was twenty-seven years old now, and she'd never forgotten her "Uncle John". She'd always known his "death" was anything but, the psychic link established with him in her childhood still lingering as a feint echo on an astral map. She'd kept herself plugged in to the nasty shit, the dark life hidden beneath the sunshine, and it was while in Paris that all the horror finally caught up to her.

She'd tried to warn her mother, but knew that she'd been too late. Now, as she stepped off the train in Paddington Station, Merc hoped that she'd find John sooner rather than later. The lives of countless women rested on her – and his – shoulders, even if it was too late for her mum. She was just the first of many, and only Constantine would know the names of the next targets.

Mercury's blonde hair, stiff like straw, stuck to her face as the rain poured down on her. She looked over her shoulder as she walked out of the station, and for a moment swore she saw the familiar olive trenchcoat and cigarette on the corner. She blinked and the vision was gone. The fleeting glimpse had made her spirit soar, not realizing just how happy it would make her to finally see him again.

And that made her wonder if she herself would end up a target.

* * *

"Come off it, Constantine," Chas said after pounding back the last drops of the pint, his fifth for the night (but who was counting? Certainly not him.). "You were just as bloody scared as I was, admit it."

John allowed a slight smile to crack his steely façade as Chas expressively recounted the story to Dave and Mattie, two drivers from Chas' station invited down for drinks by their elder statesman. "What was it called again, Chas?" John asked with a wink toward Mattie, a brunette with tits that wouldn't quit and a twinkle to her green eyes. "Blessed if I can't remember."

"Too right you can't remember," Chas said with soaring pride of a master storyteller, "who wouldn't try to repress a bloody _fuckpig_?"

John couldn't stifle his laughter for long. Yes, he admitted that allowing Chas to tell a bunch of relative strangers the inner workings of their mystical adventures could lead to danger down the lane, but what little Chas knew about things would only lead listeners to the logical solution of him being a complete mental case. It was a good story that hindsight had allowed them to get some laughs from, and that was all that mattered. It was a good reminder of just how much he and Chas had been through over the years when all of his other friends had either died or left with tails tucked firmly between legs.

John hadn't realized how much he needed friends until the day they'd all disappeared.

"So, John," Mattie said as she leaned closer, letting her breasts fall over the table with such an obviousness that he couldn't help but admire, "how much shite is Chandler talking? Did this thing really have a wanger the size of his arm?"

Constantine smirked and finished his gin and tonic before answering. "Keep in mind, luv, that in comparison to his own a swizzle-stick is the epitome of girth."

"Ah, it's bleedin' last call," Chas announced, "best be gettin' home to Renee and all. John, you need a ride?"

Constantine exchanged glances with Mattie. "Think I'll walk tonight, Chas. I'll ring you tomorrow, got work needs done."

"Cheers," Chas said as he and Dave stood from the table. Smiling, he turned toward Mattie. "Best spray yerself with bug killer 'fore dropping yer knickers in front of this bastard, girl. He's bloody well _infested_ , he is."

"Sod off," John said with a laugh, two fingers rose to Chas' back as the two men left the table.

"So," Mattie said while twirling a strand of hair around her finger, "about those knickers…?"

* * *

Trembling fingers, unsure and less than steady, lifted the cigarette to putrid lips. He inhaled, still marveling at how good it felt to take a draw after so long without, while the smoke filtered out through the holes in his neck. Sure he wasn't alive, not technically, but he was still able to enjoy the smaller pleasures that came along with breathing life.

"You're going to regret this," his victim stated. She smelled of incense and cinnamon, mixed with the metallic taste of blood.

He smiled his row of razors, gleaming in the moonlight. "Doll, the chase is what makes all this murder worth it, don't you think? Yes, the power will be nice and all, but seeing the bastard's face when I twist the knife in, that's the great bloody satisfaction for me."

It sounded like a sigh, but in reality was her gasping her last breaths. "Dragging you out of Hell was a mistake."

"You wanted your very specific form of revenge, luv," he said, splashing the toe of his shoe in the puddle of blood pooling beneath her, "and the sad thing is that he doesn't even remember you, that's how inconsequential you were to John sodding Constantine."

"He remembers," she said, then died a moment later, tears streaming down her blood-caked face.

"Here you die," he said as he stubbed his cigarette out against her eye, "nameless and alone, nothing but a forgotten fuck of a bastard…"

* * *

"Ohhhhh, Johnny," Mattie crooned as she lay writhing beneath the sheets, her legs spread in invitation. Constantine had disappeared beneath the covers, applying his trade on his newest conquest. He didn't love her, of course; don't be bloody stupid. Didn't mean he couldn't enjoy himself.

Finally emerging from below, John couldn't hide the smile on his face. "I got a surprise for you, darlin'," he whispered as he came face to face with the girl that was easily half of his age.

"Oh, is it me birthday already?" she asked in play.

John thrust with his hips, penetrating deep while Mattie screamed in ecstasy. "Better than a spanking, right?"

Two hours later, Constantine sat on the edge of the bed while Mattie's fingers danced lightly on his back. "You here with me?" she asked.

John exhaled a cloud of smoke, refusing to look at the girl he'd just bedded. "Million miles away, luv," he answered, "The closest I get, I'm afraid."

Before things could get more awkward, if possible mind, a knock sounded at the door. "It's three in the sodding ante meridian!" John exclaimed as he pulled his pants about his waist. "If that's Chas come to check up I'll bash the blood out his ears!"

Constantine staggered to the door, leaving Mattie alone in bed while he found himself regretting the nine pints he'd guzzled at Longshanks. He wasn't sick of course, but he could have done with a better sense of balance at the moment. "Coming, coming, shit," he yelled as the pounding against the door became sharper, more frantic. He opened to find a young woman standing before him, shivering from a walk through the rain.

"John?" she asked, noting that he hadn't changed a bit in eighteen years.

"Look, I got one bird in the bed already," Constantine said in annoyance, "how 'bout you come back 'round this time in a fortnight, I may have an opening then."

"You don't recognize me, then?" she asked, biting her lower lip to keep back the hurt in her heart.

"Should I, then?" he inquired, stepping further into the doorway.

"Well, you _fucked me mam_ once upon a time," she answered, "and helped me _kill a demon_. Though I suppose that kind of thing happens all the time to the great John Constantine, right?"

John's eyes widened in realization of the girl's identity. "Christ, it can't be, can it? _Mercury_?"

"I need your help, Uncle John," she admitted, fighting back her desire to collapse in his arms from exhaustion, "or everyone you've ever loved will die."

Constantine stood mute from shock (something that admittedly was a rare sight indeed for a man such as him), staring at the girl for several moments before he finally snapped back to reality. Closing the door to the flat behind him, he pushed Merc back into the hallway. "Let's step aside and talk about this, shall we?"

"Can't I come inside?" she asked, trying to peer over his shoulder as he pulled the door together.

"Well, you happened to catch me _post coitus_ , luv," he admitted sheepishly, trying to think of Mercury as an adult instead of the pre-adolescent he'd last seen, "and she's not in the game, so to speak."

"Oh," was Mercury's only reply.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them as Constantine lit a cigarette. He offered her one out of habit, not expecting her to actually accept it. There the two stood in the lamp-lit hallway, fags in hand and an immeasurable emotional distance between them. "So," he began, "what's this about murdering me loved ones?"

* * *

Mattie Marsters stretched and let out a yawn as she wrapped herself up in her man's sheets, trying in vain to cut short the bitter chill of the November London night. She remarked to herself on how a girl such as she had wound up in the bed of a man she'd only just met (though she couldn't deny, especially to herself, that this was the first time such an incident had occurred in her life), and smiled as thoughts of romance and candlelit nights danced through her head.

Thereby, as they say, hung a tale.

The daughter of a Westminster politico, Mattie had skipped out on the Oxford education that her daddy had paid so much money for in his hasty attempt to "secure her future". In reality, he simply didn't want to suffer the indignity of having a daughter attending a less than reputable institute of knowledge. So, ever the independent soul borne of rebellion for rebellion's sake, Mattie kissed her mother goodbye on her nineteenth birthday and left to find her way in the bright and shiny London she'd imagined during her years of listening to the Clash and contemporaries.

Rebellion didn't necessarily equal stupidity in her case. Adept at mathematics and equations, she fell in with the unnecessarily mysterious "cabbie clique" of Northampton Arms and immediately found what she felt to be her calling. At the age of twenty-three she graduated to the honor of her own hackney cab, spending her first week on the street under the wing of one Chas Chandler.

That should just about have us caught up then, aye?

She heard the click of the lighter from the bedroom's door, causing her to crack her eyes open just a hair. Seeing the flame lighting the end of the cigarette, Mattie suppressed a girlish giggle. "Come to bed, Johnny," she pleaded, removing the sheet oh-so-discreetly to reveal an exposed breast, "come to bed and ravish me."

He said nothing as he moved closer, and though she tried she was unable to catch a clear look at him, as if the darkness of the room was moving around to envelop and obscure him from her sight. She dismissed it as nonsense once his hand touched her bare thigh, moving up slowly to her private palace. It naturally came as a shock when she felt the nails digging into her flesh.

"Your love is my weapon," he hissed, the breath on her face smelling of sulfur and Silk Cut.

And then she screamed.

* * *

"Jesus Christ," Constantine swore, "you mean to tell me Marj is dead? How'd it happen?"

Mercury wrapped her arms around her waist, causing John to kick himself as he instinctually made a mental note of how full her breasts became over her folded arms. "Always thinking with your bleedin' dick, aren't you Constantine?" he mumbled, too low for her to hear.

"They killed her because of her link to you," Mercury explained, "because she had once been in love with you."

"Bollocks," John responded, "if someone were targeting me, why go after a bird I hadn't spoken to in near twenty years? It just doesn't add up, I'm afraid."

"You don't understand," Merc continued, "Mom was just the first. This person is targeting them all, one by one."

"All…you mean…?" John began. His question was cut off by the screams coming from his flat down the hall. He exchanged momentary looks with Mercury before he broke into a run toward his door.

"It's too late for that one," he heard Mercury comment as he exploded through his front door, sliding to a stop on the wooden floor of the flat when he reached the bedroom. What awaited him in his bed would have caused a normal man, a less experienced man, to vomit uncontrollably. As it was, John barely kept his stomach in check.

"Her name was Mattie," John said as Mercury came up behind him, seemingly unfazed by what had happened to the young woman. Blood had pooled below her exposed groin, a gaping wound having replaced her vagina. Teeth marks were evident on the skin of her thighs and abdomen, the murderer having chewed his way through to his prize.

"He ate her womb," Mercury helpfully clarified.

John slid down the wall, onto the floor, and stabbed a cigarette into his mouth. "Alright, luv," he said while trembling hands attempted to spark his lighter, "Let's say I believe you now."


	2. Chapter 2: From the Cradle

**Chapter Two: "From the Cradle…"**

"Fuckin' hell, Constantine," Frank "Chas" Chandler (so nick-named, believe it or not, after the famous roadie for Jimi Hendrix) said whilst leaning against the door frame, "kiss o' death strikes again. Who's gonna take her bloody route, you think?"

John Constantine sparked the end of his Silk Cut and crouched down in front of his bed, now occupied by the dismembered and very much deceased body of one Mattie Marsters. She'd met John through Chas the night before, one of Chandler's fellow taxi drivers, and her death note had been signed the moment she'd shook Constantine's hand. John pressed down on the mattress with two fingers, gauging how deep the pool of blood had soaked.

"We'll have to dump the bed, too, I'm afraid," he said before standing, "no salvaging it. Shame, I loved the box-springs."

"How'd this happen, John," Chas asked, "and for that matter, where the bloody hell were _you_ while it was happening? If you say the bog I'll right throttle you one…"

Constantine sighed, an exhale of smoke filtering up from his nostrils to the ceiling.

"Whatever did this, mate, is a nasty fucker indeed. I was right outside, Chas, and the bastard skinned her alive in a matter of bleedin' minutes. Now I find out the whole reason she died was because she made the poor decision to snog with me, that every bird I've ever loved is on some demon's hit-list, and that my only lead is a twenty-seven year old girl with mental problems."

Chas smirked. "So it's all business as usual, then."

John feigned a smile to counter his friend's, keeping up appearances as Jack-the-Lad no matter the situation. "Too right, Chas…too right."

"Uncle John?" a girl's voice said from the hallway, brushing past Chas like he didn't exist as she entered the room. Mercury was her name, the aforementioned head-case with a psychic lightning bolt running up her spine. Constantine had shagged her mum ages ago, and she was dead now too. The Constantine credo, it turned out, was "love hath no fury like a demon horde".

"Yeah, Merc," John answered, "got some questions need answering. Like how come you popped back into me life right before this girl met her maker?"

"I told you," Mercury replied, "I had a vision in Paris, your former loves being snuffed out like candle-flame one by one. Me mum was only the first, but I didn't think they'd call your attention quite so quickly."

Constantine scowled whilst stubbing his cigarette butt out in the blood atop the mattress. "Their fucking mistake then..."

* * *

Her name was Helen, and she owed her life to John Constantine.

Blinded in one eye from a nasty infection and the loving touch of an abusive twat, Helen wondered how she'd allowed her life to change in such drastic ways. It was so simple when it started, a brunette spitfire that loved life and refused to take shite off anyone. Barely into her twenties when she dated the oh-so-charming scouse named John, his devil-may-care attitude and dismissive emotional distance attracting her like light to the flies. It was a front, of course, one he put up like a wall to keep people from getting too close, but she could see right through it. She would spy it in his eyes or in the tone of his voice while they were alone – the kindness that he tried so hard to hide from the world.

Life became cold and hard after he left her, breaking up with her for some chippie living abroad named Emma. To this day she's not sure how she wound up peddling her arse, addicted to heroin provided by the twat that eventually took her eye along with her dignity and nearly her life. Johnny had come to her rescue then, like a knight in nicotine-stained armour, saving her from the life she'd brought upon herself.

She placed fingers to the patch that covered her eye, and remarked quietly about how it took the loss of half her vision for her to see the mess she'd made of herself. "Johnny Con-Job," she said with a smile, "I missed you, you wee louse."

"I missed you, too," the voice hissed from the bathroom door.

Standing in front of the tub, Helen disrobed to show her naked back and bottom to her man. Sure he wasn't how she remembered, the smell being the most distracting new aspect, but all that mattered was that he'd finally come back to her. She was going to be his until the end of time.

"Your love is my weapon," he repeated like a mantra, his vocal calling card.

When the police found her body, it appeared to all concerned that the young woman had swallowed a hand grenade…she'd been ripped apart seemingly from the inside out. All that were present at the unveiling of her corpse refused to report to work in the following weeks, the horror of their discovery haunting their waking moments.

And somewhere between Earth and Hell, the creature responsible flashed a smile of razors.

* * *

"Constantine, you soddin' wank stain!"

Watford, his face squat like a constipated bulldog, hunched over the soggy chips and watered down lager, his chubby fingers picking through the waste laughingly described by the pub's patrons as food. Wasn't fit for consumption by an animal, let alone a police inspector of his caliber. Naturally, the choice of meeting place hadn't been left up to him.

"Shut yer hole, Watford," Constantine ordered, in the knowledge enough to refrain from taking part in his companion's struggle, "unless you got something to say other than complaints."

"What's got me curious," Watford offered, "is just how coincidental it is that the morning we find a butchered girl in Soho is the same morning John fuckin' Constantine calls me up asking about butchered girls. What's the connection, you grifter fuck?"

Constantine lit his cigarette, following up with a puff of carcinogens blown right in the copper's portly face. "First off," he answered, "watch yer bleedin' mouth 'fore I sew it up for you. Second, I'm the one that called in the dead chippie you found in Soho. The girl was killed in me flat; wouldn't do good to have it raided by insecure nit-wits like you, would it?"

"And it all comes into focus, it does," Watford replied, shoveling a handful of chips into his mouth.

"I think someone's targeting me," Constantine continued, "or more specifically, targeting all the girls that flashed me their vertical grins, if you catch me meaning. How many other girls you found torn apart like Marsters?"

"One turned up in Brixton, head taken off her shoulders," Watford answered, "another in Chelsea with her innards on the outside, wrapped around her neck like a bloody wreath, and a third in Tower Hamlets exploded across her room like a piñata."

"Their _names_ , Watford," John commanded, his patience growing thinner with each heavily-breathed word from the copper's mouth.

"Now, what kind of inspector would I be if I were to give out sensitive information like that to a civvy, Constantine?" Watford asked, tongue firmly lodged in his cheek.

"Should I remind you, and maybe your superiors as well," John countered, cigarette pointed firmly at his companion, "just how you got your name, Watford? Might be a curious story, like, for those people I saved yer soddin' hide from back then."

Watford sighed; his shoulders slumped in his seat. He was defeated, as always, because of the god damned _favor_. "You owe me one," no more frightening words had ever passed through Constantine's lips.

"S'what I fuckin' thought, piggy," Constantine said. "Now be a good lad and oink for me."

* * *

"Don't you worry, luv. John's a good mate – hell, he's me best mate – and he'll get this lot sorted out for you before you can say "Bob's me uncle". Promise, I do."

Mercury sat in the back of Chas' taxi, her legs pulled up close to her chest with her arms wrapped around her ankles. She was a million miles away from London, only her physical body residing in the cab. It was spooky, Chas had to admit, but he'd seen far spookier in his lifetime. Usually it was because of Constantine, but he couldn't deny that when things went sideways on him there was no one better than John to have in his corner.

So what if Renee, his wife, hated Constantine and everything he got Chas involved in over the years? She just didn't understand that Chas stayed with his mate not out of some misguided obligation, but because that's just what mates do. Sure he owed John his life, his bloody soul even, but she'd argue that it wasn't a good enough reason for him to tempt old man death on a nightly basis. No, he'd answer her, that's what friends do for each other, and fuck you if you don't agree.

The back door to the taxi opened with a fierce tug, allowing a withered and worn-down Constantine to plop down on the leather seat. "Fire it up, Chas," he said with a wiggle of his index finger, "I got what I needed from the tosser."

The taxi jerked into motion with a changing of its gears and engaging of its accelerator. Mercury hadn't moved, still withdrawn into herself while her mind wandered the ether, but John hadn't the time nor inclination to wait on her. "Oi, Merc!" he shouted, snapping his fingers in the young girl's face. She gasped, eyes widened like a doe in headlights, and the muscles of her body finally unclenched. She fell sideways, head into Constantine's lap, sobbing like a lawn sprinkler in summertime.

"Oh, John," Mercury cried, wiping her eyes with his necktie, "I went looking for me Mum's soul, to ask her who killed her. I couldn't find her anywhere, she's not in Heaven and she's not in Hell! Where is she?"

"I've got some theories, luv," Constantine answered as he rubbed her head, stroking her stringy blonde hair between his fingers, "and you were right, Marj and Mattie aren't the only ones this fucker's done in. Watford gave up three names, but I only knew two. One was your mum, in Brixton, and another was some random killing in Chelsea. Here Chas, you remember Helen, the gal we saved from the pimp 'bout ten years past? She was found in Tower Hamlet this morning."

"Aye, yeah," Chas replied, though it took a moment to realize what his friend was implicating, "aw, don't tell me she's dead. We went through hell and back for her, shame to see it didn't stick."

"It was the final nail in the coffin, Chas," Constantine continued, "this just went from coincidental deaths to someone with a righteous vendetta. Looks like I'll have to break out me little black book and make me up a list of all the birds I've loved before. Marj, Helen, and Mattie, the body count is rising right quick."

"Er, right, John," Chandler began cautiously, his eyes flitting to the rear-view mirror from the road, "back when we was lads, didn't you make it with Renee? If this tosspot's killing yer ex-intimates, should I be worried like?"

John smirked. "I doubt this fucker's information extends that far back, mate," he answered, "I wouldn't worry. Trust me."

Chas nodded in agreement and returned his eyes to the road. John hated lying to the big git, but what was he supposed to say? That his wife, the mother of his daughter, was now on some death list because John Constantine once stuck his prick in her? John may have been a bastard, but he wasn't a _total fucking_ bastard.

He looked down at his lap, realizing that Mercury had fallen asleep on him. She'd grown up in the near-two-decades since he last saw her, but she still had that creepy innocence about her that she had as a child. She was both sage and naïve at the same time, a contradiction with blonde hair and perk tits. He'd always looked back on his time with Marj and Merc with fondness, and now the cold reality of his present life had come screeching in with bald tires to crash violently with the past.

If there was one fortunate side to this conspiracy against him, it was that most of the girls that had shared his bed had died after catching bad cases of Constantine Luck. There was Emma, killed by the invunche, and Isabel, who was done in by Joshua Wright a few years back. Who did that leave? There was Kit, of course, living up in Belfast last he'd heard. Angie had dropped out of sight to god knows where. Dani had moved back to the States. Rose was there, too, probably still chained to that sodding tree in Doglick. Shit, Zatanna Zatara, was she still in San Francisco or off pissing about with super-heroes again?

Then there was Ellie, who opened up a huge can of worms all on her own. She was a demon, a succubus sex demon in fact, with a grudge held against him. Could she be the one behind this, or was it too petty even for her? Constantine dismissed the idea immediately, deciding that the perpetrator would almost have to be a male considering the violence of the attacks. Still, if not the attacker would she then be a potential victim? Fuck it, Ellie was more than capable of handling herself if it came to that. Ditto for Zed, who last he heard had taken up residence in the Highlands to be worshipped as some pagan goddess or some such bollocks. Anyone looking to take out those last three would be way out of his league anyway, what help could he even give them?

The final question was whether the bastard would target the one-night stands, the single note trollops whose names John couldn't even recollect. Not enough impact there, he decided, what would be the point? Still, he couldn't help but think there was someone he'd overlooked, someone forgotten amidst the tempest of the last twenty years.

"John," Chas interrupted the litany of thought with a squeal of brakes, "we're here, right?"

* * *

"What the fuck!"

Shocka Soule shot up from his couch, his head suddenly and inexplicably drenched with water haphazardly thrown onto him while he slept. He wasn't fast nor clever enough to remember the flick-knife hidden under the middle cushion until it was too late – if they'd wanted him dead, he'd have had no opportunity to argue his case. When his vision focused and cleared with a swipe of water from his eyes, he saw that the person standing over him brought the potential for a fate far worse than death.

"Wake up, Shocka," John Constantine ordered, dropping the empty plastic cup to the floor, "we need to have ourselves a wee chat."

"Shit, man," Soule responded, toweling his hair with a t-shirt that had been tossed over the back of the couch, "couldn't you think of a more peaceful way to wake me up?"

"You got off easy; I contemplated taking a piss on you." Constantine grabbed a nearby chair and spun it in front of the couch, taking a seat on the chair's reverse, arms resting on the seat-back. "The bird that got her head off in Brixton, how'd you hear about that?"

"Heard it from a guy who heard it from a guy, that's all," Shocka swore. He began to stand, but stopped when Constantine raised his hand. As he lowered his hand, Soule returned to his seat on the couch, unable to help himself from obeying. "Look, I didn't fucking kill her, if that's what you're-"

"Never crossed me mind," John interrupted, "but I need to borrow a few things. Can't rightly guarantee they'll return in one piece, though. You don't mind, of course."

"Of-of course," Soule stammered, "take whatever you need, man."

"Glad to see you're willing to help, Shocka," Constantine said with a grin plastered across his face, "now pack your bags and feed yer bloody fish. We'll be gone for a while, most likely."

Shocka's jaw dropped open. "What, I can't leave! I've got shit here I can't just drop!"

"Come now, mate," John countered, "think about it, you going on a mission with _the_ John Constantine? Yer mystical rep will be made, son."

* * *

Mercury stood and stretched her arms above her head, working out the kinks in her back caused from sleeping in the cramped backseat of a taxi. She was ashamed, embarrassed at letting herself break down in front of John like some wee little girl. All he needed to do to finish her off was to pat her head and offer her a lolli-pop. The thought made her wince, nose scrunched while she wiped the crust from her eyes.

That was the problem, wasn't it? It didn't matter how old she was or how much she'd grown – physically or psychically – Constantine would always see her as the batty child that couldn't tell her dreams from reality half the time. She saw it in his eyes when he came down the stairs with the new addition to the crew, the patronizing "chin up, baby, the grown-ups have got it sorted so you can fuck off home."

"Merc, this –" John started, only to be cut off by Mercury's up-turned middle finger.

"Fuck you, Constantine!" she yelled, forcing John to take a step backward in surprise. Chas jumped out of the cab, all three men stunned into silence. "I am not staying behind while you go off on your bloody own to solve this! The bastard killed me mother, and I demand bloody vengeful satisfaction!"

"Merc, Jesus wept," John responded while placing his hands firmly on her shoulders, "you're me only clue to sort this shite out! I wouldn't dream of making you piss off. It's not like you're in danger or anything; I mean, I may be many things but a pedophile I'm bloody well not."

Mercury smiled, despite herself. "Can I crawl under a bus now?" she asked meekly.

"Right then," Constantine began, changing the subject as quickly as possible to save her further embarrassment, "Mercury this is Shocka, he'll be tagging along on our little hop."

"Hello," Shocka waved from beneath the packs of gear strapped to his back, loading him down.

"Chas," John addressed his friend as the trunk was loaded with their supplies, "I know you can't travel with us, but you're still up for driving us to the airport, right?"

"Our Geraldine's bringing the nipper over this weekend, mate," Chas answered, "or I'd be right there in the thick of the shit with you."

"I know, Chas," Constantine admitted with a genuine smile, "and I'll try not to hold it against you, truly I will."

John sighed in his head, thankful actually that Chas wasn't able to join their little war party. He knew it was important for his mate to feel needed, that Constantine wanted him by his side like his Gal Friday, but the truth of the matter was that John didn't expect his allies to make it through this mission with their skins intact, much like every mission he hated to admit. That was why he'd recruited Shocka, a miserable little git whose death wouldn't even cause a blip on Constantine's emotional radar. He needed an ally, that was certain, but there was a far distance between "associate" and "friend". He had plenty of the former, and way too few of the latter these days.

"Mercury, luv," John addressed the young woman, "we've got one last stop to make 'fore we head off country."

He paused dramatically, lighting his trademark cigarette to accentuate his point.

"We're going to have a right nice chat with your mum…"

* * *

A rapid taxi ride later, John and Mercury were ascending the narrow staircase of a Chelsea flat building working their way skyward to the third floor. "I know your psychic power is advanced," he explained to her, "probably even more so than before, assuming you've been embracing the gift and honing your use. But it seems this fucker's not just killed these women, he's marked sigils in their souls that keep them from heading either to the basement or the attic of the afterlife. That's why you couldn't find your mum."

"But this man…" Mercury started.

"Weeble's his name," John interjected.

"So this _Weeble_ ," she continued, "how's he going to find her if she's not in Heaven or Hell?"

"Aw, you know as well as I, doll," Constantine answered as he rapped on the door to flat 312, "a magician never reveals his tricks."

The overweight middle-aged man, Weeble, had a word half formed when he pulled open the door, but the noise choked and died in his throat. "John Constantine," he spat, "me day is now officially fucking ruined, isn't it?"

"Is that any way to greet an old mate?" Constantine answered as he pushed his way inside the flat, tugging Mercury along behind him by her shirt sleeve.

"It is," Weeble clarified after shutting his door, "when the last time said mate stopped by I wound up possessed by the spirit of Aleister Crowley. Now what the fuck do you want?"

"This little girl's mum got herself killed by some mad fucker a few nights ago," Constantine replied as he walked over to the table set up in Weeble's living room. When he reached it, he pulled the chair out and beckoned for his mate to have a sit-down. "We looked for her spirit; it's not in Heaven or Hell. I need you to do that voodoo you do so well, Weebs."

Weeble sighed, but acquiesced without protest by pushing Constantine away from the table and taking his seat in front of it. "I need a fetish," he stated.

"You got something of your mum's?" John asked Mercury. The young woman fiddled in the pockets of her jeans until she pulled out a coin.

"You're giving me a bloody quid?" Weeble asked as she dropped it in his hand.

"The first my mum gave me when I left her in Scotland," she replied, "it connected us, even when I was a hundred miles south."

Weeble sighed, muttered something about "fucking amateurs", and closed his eyes. John moved next to Mercury and began to whisper. "Weeble can make contact with any disembodied spirit, regardless of what's been done to them or where they've been placed, through the fetish. I've never seen anyone able to hide from him, let's hope this mad bastard's not as clever as he thinks he is."

Weeble began to sway in his seat, his girth moving from side-to-side while a low moan floated from his mouth. Slowly, the moans changed tones, the voice lessening in bass, moving from masculine to feminine. Green mist, the solid ectoplasmic discharge of the spirit world, filtered into the air like liquid in anti-gravity, hovering through the air above the table. "Mercury?" the voice, decidedly female, asked mournfully.

"Mum?" Mercury answered. Constantine gave her points for not tearing up.

"It's so dark here," Marj, speaking through Weeble, continued, "I can't see you, baby. I'm so sorry, I've gone and died on you, haven't I?" The luminous ectoplasm began to coalesce, a woman's face visible in the fluid.

"I've got someone here to help us," Mercury responded, "someone that needs to know who killed you."

"I don't want to remember," Marj answered. John noticed Weeble's face twisting into a wince.

"Too late for that, Marj ol' girl," Constantine finally spoke up, "you weren't the last bird on the arsehole's list. I need to know who it is 'fore anyone else gets clipped."

"Oh God," Marj's spirit whined, "not John Constantine…"

"Look, I'm sorry I never called, luv," John apologized, "but this is—"

"You killed me," the spirit interrupted, angrier and more hostile than before.

"What?" Mercury asked, confused.

The ghost solidified itself a hand, complete with a finger pointed accusatorily at John. " **You killed me, John Constantine!** "

Constantine scowled…how the fucking hell had things possibly gotten worse than they'd already been?


	3. Chapter 3: Hell is Where the Heart Is

**Chapter Three: "Hell Is Where the Heart Is"**

"Hold onto your fucking hat, ye wee fuck," he said as he stumbled to the door, half-cut from his late night at the pub and awakened way too early in the sodding morning by whoever-the-fuck was knocking. Ann had already left for church, maybe she'd locked herself out again?

Sean near fell down the stairs, tripping on his pink bathrobe - pink, mind you, because it was in truth his wife's bathrobe - but caught himself on the handrail after a tumble down to the base of the steps. The rapping on the door continued steadily, each knock sounding like a jackhammer in his sobering head. Sean, forty-nine years old with a paunch as large as his ego, reached for the door handle with thoughts of murder running through his mind.

"Piss off!" he shouted as he threw open the door, spittle flying from his mouth. He didn't see the fist coming at him until it had already landed across the bridge of his nose. He fell down in the foyer with a resounding thud, dropped and stunned by the unexpected blow to his face.

"Bloody hell...kick yer arse..." he rambled as the attacker entered the house, stepping over Sean's slumped body. As he passed, his hand grabbed a hunk of Sean's blonde hair (which Ann had constantly been asking him to cut, but was a part of his youth he just couldn't bear to let go) and pulled, dragging the heavy man across the tile floor. Sean's yelp of pain was sustained the length of the drag, stopping when the stranger released his grip upon reaching the kitchen.

"Listen, mate," the stranger, definitely male and definitely not Irish - not with that accent - began as he pulled a chair from the kitchen table and took a seat in front of Sean, who remained on the floor, "I'm in a bit of a rush, not to mention how much I hate fucking Belfast. You tell me what I want to know, sharpish, and maybe I'll leave enough of you intact for your family to hold an open casket funeral."

Sean was recovering from the first punch, which had the added benefit of sobering him up rather quickly, and his blood was beginning to boil with rage. His temper, he had been told, was one of his least-charming attributes, but it had its advantages. "Prick!" he snarled as he leapt to his feet, fists swinging for the fences. The intruder remained in his seat, sighed, and raised his hands, catching both of Sean's fists in his palms.

"Have it your way," the attacker remarked. He squeezed his fists, crushing the bones in Sean's hands with an unnatural amount of pressure. Sean screamed and fell back onto the floor, holding his broken fingers under his armpits while he cried.

"What d'you want?" Sean sobbed. The stranger was silent for a moment, lighting a cigarette, milking the drama of his pregnant pause.

"I'm looking for your sister-in-law," he finally answered, "I'm here for Kit Ryan..."

* * *

Three women walked down the wind-swept January streets of Belfast, Ireland. The three, sisters all, wrapped their coats to hug across their arms, fighting back the chill, and conversed amongst themselves. They ignored the tank that lurched by, as commonplace a sight in the city as a taxi, and continued on their way. Ann, Claire, and Katherine Ryan were making their way home from church, unaware that their lives would be descending into Hell as the day drew on.

"Who's bloody idea was it to have a piss-up the night before Sunday mass?" Claire asked as she rubbed fingers across her temples, massaging away the headache rumbling behind her eyes.

"That would be our brother's grand plan, eh?" Katherine answered. "Fucking moron, that one is, but not as much as we are for listening to him."

"Kathy!" Ann, ever the demure older sister, chastised. "Language."

"Aye," Claire agreed with a giggle, "wouldn't do to come out of God's house with mouths like sailors. Could make the angels think we're not taking the fate of our mortal souls serious like."

"Claire!"

Kathy giggled herself as she wrapped her arm around Ann's shoulders. "Ann, love, you go on home and see if Sean's passed out on the bog again, won't you? God loves you, but not as much as we do."

Ann smiled and returned the hug before making her way down the street toward her car. Claire and Kathy watched their older sister depart, waving at her as she left, before they turned direction and started the walk toward a nearby cafe. Just a few minutes later, Ann was whistling a half-forgotten church hymn as she dug through her purse for the keys to her house.

"Sean, love?" she asked as she entered the home, tossing her purse atop the table in the foyer. She stepped across the tile but gasped when her foot slid out from under her. Falling with a crash, her head smacked hard against the ceramic surface, sending sparks of electricity through her brain from the impact. She lay there, stunned, for several long moments until her hands finally began to pat the floor beneath her.

She choked back a scream when her hands came back sticky and wet with blood.

Ann scrambled to her feet, shoes still slipping on the blood coating the floor, and clumsily ran into the kitchen. All she could think about was reaching the phone, not thinking of the cellular in her purse back near the door. Where was Sean? So much blood! Phone in the kitchen!

She skidded to a stop on the hardwood floor when she reached the kitchen. Her husband Sean was tied to a chair, the trail of blood leading from the front door to directly beneath his seat. He was slumped forward, held by the cords wrapping around his body and the chair, and his eyes...his eyes were deep, black holes, with the edges charred and burned. Someone had put out Sean's eyes with a cigarette; Ann could smell the cigarette smoke in the air, nauseatingly mixed with the stench of burned flesh.

She backed slowly out of the room, unable to cross past her husband's corpse to reach the phone on the far wall. She had to get out of the house; maybe her neighbor Mr. Phelps was home and could help her? She had to get out of the house, because whoever had killed her husband could still be inside. She'd backed out into the hallway, unable to turn her eyes away from Sean's mutilated body.

She shrieked when the hand slapped down on her shoulder. "Sorry, luv," a man's voice apologized, his inhuman grip keeping Ann from turning around, "but I can't have you alerting anyone." Another hand was placed on Ann's opposite shoulder, grotesquely clawed fingers slipping up onto her neck.

The man twisted Ann's head on her shoulders, wrenching it a near 180 degrees, then allowed the body to fall to the floor.

"That would ruin the surprise..."

* * *

"I feel like my head's been smashed in by a great big piece of steel," Claire remarked, "you?"

"Aye," Kathy answered, "though not as badly as last Sunday. That was a piss-up for the ages that was."

The two women had exited the café, where they had found that not even coffee as black as the Devil's arsehole was enough to temper their hangovers, and walked up the three blocks toward the home they shared. It was a particularly sunny (or, sunny for Ireland, at least) Sunday afternoon, with just enough of a light chill in the autumn air to keep them alert. Fresh air and coffee, two well-established remedies that were proving weak opponents to the pounding in their skulls. When would they learn, and for god's sake why would they want to?

"Doesn't it ever worry you," Claire asked, her tone having changed ever-so-slightly from humorous to serious, "that we're two unmarried middle-aged women that spend nearly every night in the pub? You've lived in my house for ten years, Kathy, and you know I don't mind - you know that, right? - but is this going to be our lives for the rest of time? Should we not, I dunno, aspire or have goals or something?"

Katherine laughed, though she knew her sister was being sincere. "Oh, that's _just_ what I want: shit out a few wee brats and spend my remaining mortal years subservient to some oul' git that works down the way. Compared to that, Claire, I think we live like bleedin' royalty."

"Oh, and aren't you little miss cynicism," Claire replied, the smile returned to her lips, "and correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you the one all ready to settle down with someone not long ago?"

"That was a long time ago," Kathy said, her tone indicating the abrupt end of the conversation, at least if Claire knew what was good for her. The two came upon their house, halfway up a steep incline of a street, and noticed someone sitting on the steps of their porch.

"Who's this?" Claire asked as they neared.

Katherine's face grew white when they got close enough to see their caller's face. Sitting on the step in a rumpled brown duster, blonde hair unkempt and a half-smoked fag hanging between his fingers was a man she had tried hard to forget over the past decade. "Speak of the fucking Devil," she whispered.

"Kit," John Constantine greeted, unable to hide the affectionate smile on his face, "you look like you've just spied a ghost..."

Ten minutes later, Claire was trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation being held in the next room, attempting instead to focus on the kettle whistling atop the stove. She'd seen how just a few simple words from the man on their stoop had affected her sister, and she'd seen something in Kathy that she'd never seen before.

This man had _frightened_ her sister.

So she'd left the two of them alone to have their reunion, Kathy and the mysterious man from London that she'd loved a decade past. Some sister Claire had turned out to be, making tea instead of stepping up to this bastard and letting him know just how much damage he'd caused to Kathy's life. "Sod it," she said as she moved closer to the kitchen door, ears tuning in to the conversation.

"Kit, luv," Constantine said, sitting across the room from the woman that had walked out of his life so long ago, "I know you weren't expecting this, but believe me when I say I wouldn't be here if it wasn't deadly urgent."

Katherine folded her arms across her chest and slouched back into the couch. "You realize that I haven't been called "Kit" since the last time we spoke?"

"Something's happening," John continued, choosing not to engage the tangent in the conversation, "and I've come here to warn - and, if needs be, _protect_ \- you."

Kit's eyes narrowed. "Protect me from _what_ , John?"

Constantine hesitated, sighing as he rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. Kit examined him, taking note of how weary and tired he looked, like the world had beaten the spark of life from his body. Strange though, she wondered, he didn't look a day older than the last time she'd seen him fourteen years ago. "Out with it," she ordered, "or take a walk out the door."

John nodded, but still fought to find the words. "Kit, just, look," he stammered, "fuck it. There's some mad bastard out there murdering girls…."

"Girls are murdered every day, John," she interjected.

"No, see, there's a pattern to it," he explained. He paused to light a cigarette, shaking nervous hands trying to spark the cheap disposable lighter until finally, on the fourth try, he achieved a flame. "The women being killed are connected by a bad decision each one of 'em made during their lives."

Kit scowled, starting to understand just where the conversation was heading.

"They all made the mistake of loving me, Kit," he finally admitted, "and now some fuck is killing them for it. There have been five deaths so far…"

"Are you trying to tell me that I'm number six on some serial killer's hit list, John?" Kit asked, with a tone as cold as ice.

John looked up at her, wincing, like a child whose hand had been caught stealing from a cookie jar. "Aye. Sorry, luv."

It was at that moment that Claire kicked open the swinging door to the kitchen, a tray gripped in her hands and a nervous smile on her face. She motioned down with her eyes toward the three steaming cups on the tray. "Either of you fancy a cuppa tea?"

* * *

John sat on the concrete stoop of the house, watching as afternoon slowly changed into evening, the skies darkening little by little as time marched forward. He inhaled on his cigarette and ruminated, thinking about the woman he'd traveled so far to see, and the mission he had been tasked to complete. "Bollocks," he muttered before lighting a fresh fag off the dying embers of the one last smoked.

He'd met Kit in 1980, when she was 18 years old and the live-in girl of his best mate Brendan Finn. He fell in love with her immediately, entranced by her raven-hued tresses and spitfire attitude. She was one of the few, the very few, around whom Constantine could be himself sans the mystique. She read him like a book, even back then, and immediately knew why he and Brendan were such close friends. Brendan Finn was an alcoholic that knew, for a fact, that the drink would be his death yet refused to stop right up until the end. John was like that, though his addiction ran deeper than booze (not to say he hadn't had his own problems with alcoholism, that is). No, he was addicted to danger, to violence and magic.

John Constantine was addicted to death.

And that, ultimately, was why she left him fourteen years ago: he'd never be able to fight back his addictions, not even for her. Of course, she had no idea what effect the break-up had on him. How he spiraled into despair and curled up inside the comforts of the bottle. For months he lived homeless on the streets of London, frantically spending his time trying to kill his sobriety, for sober thoughts brought back memories of her.

All that pain he'd carried around inside him for the better part of a decade, delivered up as a mark on his tainted soul. The memories of Kit had been given as a gift, but he'd gladly have given them back. They were certainly good motivation, however, that much he could not deny. But still, the other girls meant little in comparison to Kit Ryan, the one true love of his life over and above the rest.

That's what made all of this so fucking hard.

"John," Kit said from the door behind him. He immediately noticed the pain in her voice, the quiver that meant she was fighting back tears and losing the battle. He turned at the waist and caught her face, twisted into a mask of hurt and confusion. "It's my sister, Ann, an' her husband…"

John stood up, realizing that whatever happened must have been serious. "They weren't answering the phone, so our brother Peter went over to check on 'em. Afraid Sean might have got rough with 'er again, y'know? Jaysis, John, someone's bloody murdered them."

John moved closer, arms open wide to embrace his woman, offering comfort and solace in her time of need and tragedy. He would be her rock, her knight in tarnished armor there to protect her and make all the bad things go away. He could stay in Belfast, as much as he hated the place, and live with Kit until the end of days. _Everything was going to be okay_.

And then she slapped the ever-loving shite out of him.

"This is all your bleedin' fault, isn't it?" she screamed while Constantine took a step back, shocked at her reaction. He held a hand up to his cheek, scratched by her nails, but no blood came from the cuts.

"Kit, come on now," he attempted, only to get slapped again.

"This is why no one stays with you, John!" she continued, letting him again nurse his face from her slap. "Everywhere you go turns into a fucking trauma ward! Your life is a sodding great wound around you, and you go on not caring as usual! How many people have to die before you realize a night down the pub _isn't going to fix things_?"

John stood silent, mouth agape. The initial shock was beginning to settle, rapidly turning from surprise to anger.

"The day you come back into my life – _the same sodding day_ – my sister gets fucking chopped," she continued to shout, stabbing an accusatory finger into John's chest, "tell me that's a coincidence! Tell me you 'ad nothing to do with it, you miserable cocksucker!"

"You act like I killed 'em meself!" Constantine shouted back. It was at this point that Claire emerged in the doorway behind Kit, tears streaming down her face. What would the neighbors think of such a scene playing out on her front stoop?

Kit sighed loudly and closed her eyes in an attempt to calm down. "Don't you understand, John?" she asked softly. "Even if you didn't do the deed personally, you're still responsible. You said so yourself, or am I to believe this arsehole's killing your ex-girlfriends for some reason other than revenge of some sort against you?"

"Piss off!" John retaliated, flicking up a two-fingered gesture as he turned to walk down the steps. He wasn't going to stand there and take such abuse, not with his kind of power and attitude. He was angered, furious at the cheeky bitch that was staring a hole through his back still when he hit the sidewalk. There was at least an upside to all this, he decided.

The bitch had just made a difficult decision into a sodding easy one.

* * *

Constantine had been sitting on the barstool for hours, his coat draped over the back of his seat, nursing the latest in a long line of lager pints. The barkeep had attempted to strike up a conversation with the scouse, but John let him know that he wasn't up for a cheery spell of chit-chat. His plan for the evening was to drink himself near to death, wait for darkness to fall, get done what he'd come to do, and then get the fuck out of Ireland. He had a soft spot in his cold, dead heart for Dublin due to Brendan, but Belfast was a pit that deserved to be bombed back to the Stone Age - something the city's citizenry were all-too-willing to do to themselves, it seemed.

He threw up the glass and allowed the last of the stout to glide down his throat. He could barely taste it anymore, and no matter how much he drank he couldn't wipe away the dark thoughts that constantly crept through his mind. Normal people didn't dwell on things like demons and murder...but then again, this John was far from a normal person.

"Oi, John Constantine?"

Constantine turned around in the stool, swinging his feet into the legs of the man that had addressed him. He was middle-aged but still had a glint of youth twinkling in his eye, a beard that covered his jaw like a shag carpet, and a face that immediately struck John as familiar. "Do I know you, mate?"

The man-boy stepped up to the bar beside John and slapped his hand down on the wood to get the tender's attention. "Whiskey and stout for me and my mate here," he ordered, getting a nod from the bar man. Turning back to face Constantine, he leaned against the bar and scratched at his beard. "Name's Peter Ryan," he said, "seems you're familiar like with my sister Kathy?"

"Ah," John said after striking up a fag, "that's why you look so familiar, innit? You're a twin with Claire, right?" Peter nodded and then turned to accept his pint. Constantine waved his to the table, the bartender agreed by sitting the glass on the table in front of him. "So what's the word, squire? You come down here to protect your sister's honour or some other chivalrous bollocks?"

"Look, Kathy never really liked to talk about her time with you," Peter said, trying to match the cold stare given by Constantine, "but she mentioned some of the mad shite you were involved with."

"Mad shite for a mad bastard," John warned, holding his stare as he sucked on his cigarette. Peter held on as long as he could before inevitably turning his gaze down to look at the bar top. Peter wasn't a brave man, more of the class comedian than the bad-ass, and it showed like a signal flare.

"I need t' know," Peter admitted, "Did you have anything to do with Ann's death like Kathy said? I can't accuse a man o' murder without asking him myself, y'know?"

Constantine said nothing, making no attempt to answer Peter's heartfelt question. He took a slow drag on his cigarette and took the first drink out of the pint ordered for him. When he lowered the glass, he exhaled the smoke from his mouth into the air, causing Peter to cough. John stood up and removed his coat from the back of the chair while Peter watched, getting angrier with each passing moment of insulting silence.

"Come with me," Constantine ordered before making his way through the crowd, toward the door, "and I'll tell you everything."

Peter hesitated, wondering if he should follow. John turned back and flashed a grin. "Trust me..."

* * *

"Fucking useless!" Katherine Ryan slammed the phone onto the coffee table, hanging up on the inspector on the other side of the call in her own interminable way. She'd been in cooperation with the coppers for the entire evening, and nothing had been concluded on her sister and brother-in-law's murders. She sighed and nicked a cigarette from the pack John had left on the table, desperately needing something to calm her nerves. Claire had gone to bed nearly an hour prior, though the only way she was able to sleep was due to the sedative Kathy had slipped into her tea. Let Claire get some rest while she took care of business being the strong one, as per usual.

Kathy walked to the front door, holding off on lighting the cigarette inside per her sister's wishes. When she opened the door, John Constantine stood wavering on his feet, teetering over before she'd had time to react. Constantine pushed himself inside the house as he fell, landing hard on his knees so he could continue his path via the crawl. Kit slipped backward on her heels, barely missed by the toppling Englishman that she assumed was too pissed to think, let alone walk correctly. Constantine crawled as far into the living room as he could, then rolled over onto his back, convulsing from a fit of nervous coughs.

"Looks like you had the piss-up of all piss-ups, eh?" Kit said with a half-sustained chuckle.

"Would yer give me a hand, luv," John choked out, "or d'you prefer me bottom down on the shag here?"

Kit laughed, despite her hatred of the man still seething in the back of her mind, and offered up a hand to assist him. John laughed as well as he grasped onto her helping hand, allowing her to assist in pulling him to his feet. She couldn't help but notice the red stains on the cuffs of his coat and the tips of his fingers, and that sense of uneasiness again crept up her spine.

"John," Kit began while Constantine took a fall onto the nearest couch opposite the front door, "I had a bit of a row with Peter, my wee brother."

"About what?" John asked.

"About you, and Ann, and all of the mad shite you'd been involved in over the years." She paused and decided to light that cigarette inside after all, fuck off t' Claire's house rules. "Peter wanted to go find you, to talk with you about the supernatural and horror bollocks, to see if you had a theory about what had happened to our Ann."

She looked over at John, who had followed her lead and was sparking up a smoke of his own. "Peter found me down the local," Constantine admitted, "and I have to say that I wasn't in much of a state to help meself, let alone anyone else. He bought me a pint and whiskey, then followed me outside to the pisser..."

"And then...?" Kit questioned after a few moments of silence.

John sighed, but allowed the prompting to keep him going. "I passed out mid-stream; woke up in a puddle of me own piss an hour later."

"And where did Peter go?" Kit continued to question.

"Fuck, luv, I was barely conscious enough to make my way here without any major catastrophes," John whined, "odds are yer brother realized how useless I am and either scooted back home or went back in the bar to drown his sorrows."

Kit leaned her back against the door, directly across from the sitting Constantine. "Where'd the blood come from, then?"

A puzzled look came over John's face as he looked down on his clothes, searching until he finally came across the still-fresh bloodstains on the cuffs of his coat. "Ah, this..." His expression turned from puzzled to smug "...this starts the next chapter of the story, I'm afraid. In fact, we could even call it a change from one genre to another."

Kit grew nervous, aware that she was blocking the only exit out of the house. If John did something, would she have enough time to open the door and get through before he caught her? Sod it, she decided, she could bash the shite out of Constantine if he tried anything, a fighter that man was not.

"Before this, we were stuck in one of those predictable "chick flicks" that the birds all seem t' like, with a dash of murder involved to get the "suspenseful thriller" crowd in the seats." As he spoke, John made no effort to leave his seat, in fact he enjoyed settling himself in deeper on the sofa. "Now, well, we've just come to the twist in the plot, where everything we thought we knew has suddenly gone tits-up all over the place."

Kit jumped and very nearly screamed when a series of knocks pounded on the door behind her. She looked at the door, then turned back to look at Constantine. "I thought I was going to have more time for this," he remarked, "but again, I should've finished this long ago, so it's no one's fault but me own. Open the door."

Kit threw open the door, startling the two people - a young woman and a black man - so much so that they backpedaled down the steps. "Merc, Shocka," a man's voice said from the sidewalk, "mind yer fuckin' manners, kids!" Kit motioned past the two youths, having immediately recognized the man's voice. Her eyes widened, like deer caught in headlights. "What's the matter, Kit me luv?" John Constantine asked. "Looks like you just spied a ghost or summink..."

Kit's voice was frozen, unable to choke out a single word as she frantically turned back inside the house. Constantine was still sitting on her couch, but he had changed dramatically. Never mind the butcher's knife balanced on his index finger, John's skin had turned a sickly hue of green. Pieces of flesh had rotted away, particularly on his right cheek where a colony of white maggots squirmed out for freedom. She met his eyes, which were now colored the deepest red of blood. Finally he smiled, revealing rows of razored fangs - a mouth like a shark.

"What's the matter, doll?" he hissed.

"What the fuck are you," Kit asked through clenched teeth, "a demon?"

John Constantine entered from behind, placing a hand on Kit's shoulder. "Not just a demon, my dear."

The creature sparked up a Silk Cut between fingers like flick-knives.

"He's the bloody Demon Constantine..."


	4. Chapter 4: Objects in Mirror

**Chapter Four: "Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear"**

"I have a message for you, John."

John Constantine scowled as he stepped into the two-up, two-down squatting in the heart of Belfast, pushing his way past the woman of the house. His sidekicks, the two youngsters pulled into a situation that was miles above their heads, hung back under the porch light, afraid to step over the threshold. The woman, Kathy Ryan, didn't know whether to be terrified or pissed off. John didn't have such a problem; he knew exactly which emotion to have when the demon in the identical scruffy trenchcoat smiled its row of razored teeth and extended his middle finger into the air.

"Up yours, mate!"

"Several years ago," John began the long explanation, while his demonic doppelganger smirked and lit a fresh fag, "a demon had me over a barrel. Because of me a mate's kid was going to Hell, literally, unless I offered up my soul in his place. It was the demon blood I had swimming around in me veins that had doomed me to accept the fucker's trade, but I eventually came up with a way out. I created a double of meself, split meself in half and animated it; it got the demon blood and all the rest of the negative badness that had built up inside me over the years, all the viciousness and apathy. I created this lesser Constantine and offered it up on a plate to the First of the Fallen, and because it had the demon blood the Devil had no choice but to take it in my stead."

"Jesus," the young man named Shocka whispered from the doorway.

"Hell didn't kill me, though, did it?" the Demon Constantine interjected. "I survived; hell, I fucking thrived down there, embraced the demon part of me and ascended up through the bloody ranks. Once I got my fill, I came back to Earth, 'round 'bout five weeks ago, maybe?"

"And now this mad fucker has been killing off women whose only sins were falling in love with me at one point in their lives!" John yelled, tearing off his coat and tossing it to the side, getting ready for the confrontation. "You went after Kit, you poncy fuck? We bloody _loved_ her!"

Kathy Ryan kept silent while two halves of the same man argued about her like she wasn't there. Instead, her eyes darted over to the young girl that had crept her way to John's back, a manicured hand placed soothingly on his shoulder. John calmed at her touch, leading Kit to wonder just what kind of sick relationship he was having with a girl young enough to be his daughter.

"So Mum's ghost was right," the girl said, "in a queer way, you _did_ murder her, didn't you John?"

The Demon Constantine's eyes lit up at her statement, prompting him to sit forward on the edge of the couch to get a better look at her with his blood-red eyes. "Strewth, is that _Mercury_ back there, John? Little girl's come back all perky and round-arsed, hasn't she? You haven't diddled her yet, have you? I'd hate to have to add her to me list and all, you swarthy bastard you."

He stood, then, the Demon Constantine, causing all assembled but John to take a nervous step backward. In one clawed hand a cigarette dangled between fingers while in the other was clutched the red-stained butcher's knife. "I'm going into the kitchen," he said, pointing with the cigarette to the door at his left, "and there I'll be waiting, John, for you to come in and settle this. If you're able to man up first, of course."

The Demon raised the knife, causing only poor Shocka to flinch, and with a casual downturn of his arm stabbed the blade into the wooden coffee table sitting in front of him. With a smirk and a draw of his cigarette, the creature turned and walked through into the kitchen, the door swinging back and forth on its hinges. Kit, Mercury, and Shocka all turned toward John, who sighed and with a deliberately slow pace unpacked and lit a cigarette of his own.

"I see it now," he said, "I really _am_ a sodding prick, aren't I?"

"I want to know why," John asked as the door swung closed behind him, plunging him into the darkness of the kitchen, the only light coming from the cherries of his and his doppelganger's cigarettes. "Why the girls, for God's sake? It can't be just revenge, right? You loved them, too, when you were a part of me."

The Demon Constantine smiled his rows of razorblade teeth, plumes of smoke exhaling from his rotting nostrils. A maggot fell from the great hole in his cheek, landing with a squirm on the collar of his coat before he flicked it off into the darkness. "Sex magic is a potent brew, old son," he answered with a hiss, "and murdering every twat you stuck your prick into over the years is just one piece of the pie. I turned each of them into a Scarlet Woman, like ol' Aleister Crowley taught me to do down in Hell, and with each dead cunt the spell gets that much stronger. Five girls dead now, Johnny boy, that makes me a fuck sight more powerful than you these days."

"That tells me fuck-all, asshole," John countered as he stepped further into the black room. His double had taken a seat at the dining table, one leg hefted up onto his knee as he sat back in recline, an arm slung over the seat back. "What gave you this sodding plan after all these years? You sure as shite didn't get my bloody brains when I made you, so somebody else had to have turned you on. Stop me if you've heard this one, you git."

"Maybe so," the Demon answered as he stamped out his cigarette on the tablecloth, "maybe no."

It was so very dark in the kitchen, and John had trouble making out exactly what his copy was doing at the table. His finger ran across the tablecloth, around where he'd put out his fag, but what was he really doing? The double raised his bloodshot eyes to gaze at John as his finger traced along the cloth. "Even after everything you did to me, John, even after _Hell_ , all I ever wanted was to be just like you. I ached for a return to what had been our life before you sold me off like some old, dusty curio at an auction. I came back from the Pit five weeks ago, aren't you curious what I was doing all that time?"

"Don't give two tugs of a dead dog's cock, mate," John answered, "you murdering me girlfriends has kind of put me off having a chit-chat, y'know?"

"Have it your way, then," the Demon responded as he stood from the table, shedding the brown trenchcoat from his shoulders and tossing it into the corner. "We'll have a chance for chit-chat soonish like, I promise."

Suddenly, the pitch dark of the room shattered as the kitchen door behind John swung open fiercely, causing the true Constantine to turn blinded, a hand raised up over his eyes to try and force an adjustment to the sudden influx of light. "Arsehole!" he heard screamed, Kit's voice ragged with rage and pain, and his vision corrected itself just in time to see the butcher's blade coming at him in her hand. The knife stabbed deep into his left shoulder, followed by a kick of her shoe in his breadbasket, knocking him over onto the ceramic tile floor.

She landed another kick to his ribs before the Demon lurched forward, yelling her name as he tackled her back through the door into the sitting room. Through the pain, the sharp piercing pain of the blade stuck in his shoulder, John took to his feet and staggered out through the back door of the house, Kit's screaming still ringing in his ears. What the fuck had just happened?

It hit him as he stumbled out into the Belfast night, his "fight or flight" response carrying him desperately out of harm's way, to wherever he might find safety or sanctuary. The fucking double took off his coat just before Kit attacked, mirroring what John himself had done in the sitting room when he discarded his own coat. The two were wearing identical clothes, and - fuck! The tablecloth, the sodding ashes from his fag! He drew a fucking sigil in the ashes, a glamour spell! He hadn't just made himself look like "normal" Constantine , he made John look like the demon!

And now John was running, bleeding to death in the moonlight while gunfire played out in the distance (it was Belfast , after all). He'd left his companions in the company of a demon, a demon who most likely was getting ready to go on the hunt. His identity had just been stolen, and now he was just another demon to be squashed by the bloody great John Constantine...

* * *

"Kit, what the bloody hell were you playing at in there?" John - the Demon John, glamoured up to hide his true appearance - asked as he pushed Kathy back into the sitting room, where Mercury waited to catch her as she fell backward.

"He's gone out the back," Shocka said as he cracked open the kitchen door, very much afraid of what might have been on the other side, "so what's the plan?"

"That _thing_ killed my sister and my brother!" Kit yelled, slapping Mercury's hands off her shoulders. "It was here to kill me, too, wasn't it?"

"Aye, luv," Constantine answered, a seemingly genuine look of regret on his face, "that it was. Don't worry, though, ol' John's here to sort it out right. I promise."

"I will never forgive you for this, John Constantine," Kit swore, daggers stabbing from her cold eyes.

"I'm going after the bugger," John said, brushing off Kit's epitaph, "you three hold down the fort here and I'll be back quick as cats."

Then he left, with no one giving a word of protest, through the kitchen door on the trail of his other. He stopped for a moment, retrieving the coat he'd tossed into the corner of the kitchen, and was off to eliminate the real John Constantine. It hadn't been part of the plan, of course, but improvisation could most certainly be a good thing for them.

After his departure, Kit sat down, ignoring her two guests in favor of a cigarette and silence. Shocka made his way to Mercury, calling her attention to the chair beside the door. "John forgot his coat," he remarked, noticing the trenchcoat that Constantine had discarded upon entering the house.

"That wasn't John," Mercury corrected as she picked up the coat and slipped it on. She closed her eyes, a hand held to her forehead as if she had just picked up an intense migraine. When she opened them, a smile danced across her lips. "Our John, the real John, is on the run, and he left us instructions."

"You're kidding," Shocka said in disbelief while Mercury fished through the coat's pockets. She produced the contents and held them up to the New Orleans native. "Oh Christ," he groaned before taking the object from her hand, "roll up your sleeve, doll..."

* * *

He barely made it a kilometer through the city before collapsing in the drainage ditch dug out on the right side of the street. Constantine fell in a bloody heap, his shoulder fucking killing him and a blood loss-induced headache that made his skull throb and pulse. The ditch was cold and wet, soaking through his white dress-shirt after only a few seconds of lying face down in the muck.

What a way to spend a night in sodding Belfast , he thought as he rolled over onto his back, hand pressed to the bloody knife wound in his shoulder.

He'd been played by a fucking Xerox copy of himself, led right into a trap that he fell for hook, line, and sinker. He still didn't understand, though, why the bastard had come after Kit out of all the ex-girlfriends they'd had throughout the years. Yes, Kit was the one that John loved more than any other, at least at the time, but there was a big damn bloody reason that he wouldn't have considered her a target had he known who the killer truly was.

"So I bet I can guess what you're thinking, Johnny," a voice that sound like his own, but filtered through a mix-master, said from the street above him. Crouching down to get a better look at his fleeing victim, the Demon Constantine smiled and sucked on the end of his cigarette.

"For someone that used to be a part of me," John spat back from the ditch, "you know fuck-all about what I think."

"You're wondering why I went after Kit," the Demon continued, the smoke from his cigarette forming a ghostly halo around his putrefied features. "To tell you the truth, I don't know if I'd really had it in me to finish the job before you came riding in like the cavalry. I've been here, in her presence, the better part of the day - killed her brother, killed her sister and the woman's oafish husband - but I'd look at her face and all the things we shared came rushing back. I'm sure you thought you were doing me a solid when you left me your 'gift', mate, but what you did was more of a torture than _anything_ Hell could attempt."

And there it was, the answer to John's unspoken question. When Constantine created him, cast the spell and annexed the negative parts of his soul, he decided he couldn't completely damn the poor bastard. He left him one shining ray of hope; he left him all the love that John had felt for Kit Ryan. Constantine had clear, vivid memories of his time spent with Kit, but the emotions attached to those memories were gone now. He'd given them to his double as an act of kindness, and look at what that gift had done.

"If you still feel one sodding ounce of the love I felt for Kit," John said as he sat up with his back against the dirt and grass wall of the ditch, "there's no way you could've killed her."

"You're probably right," the Demon said as he stubbed out his fag, then reached inside his coat pocket for another. He produced two cigarettes from the pack, lit them both, and passed one down to John.

"Cheers," John said as he took a draw, "guess you're not a total bastard, huh?"

"One last smoke for the condemned man," the Demon replied, still squatting over the disabled and defenseless Constantine. "Truthfully, old squire, it was our love for Kit that allowed me to hold on to the last scrap of humanity my soul had left. You passed along everything bad to me, John, how did you really think I was going to turn out - especially with demon blood factored in? But Kit, jaysis, thinking of her, it made me long for what I had before you split us up. I wanted to be _you_ again, _the_ John Constantine! But I was in Hell, where I thought I'd be for eternity; where you sent me, you bastard. That's where an old acquaintance found me, John; found and rescued me. I still had all the badness inside me, I always had, and what this rescuer offered me in return for my services - well, let's just say a few slaughtered women was a small price to pay."

"So what's the plan now, mate?" Constantine asked. "Hero or villain, which part you playing now?"

"Now," the Demon replied, "I think I'll just kill you and take your place. Why settle for a copycat existence when I can have the real thing, y'know?"

"Right," John said, suddenly smiling in the face of impending death, "too bad there's just one fatal fucking flaw, you tosser."

At that moment, thin, lithe arms wrapped around the Demon's neck, yanking him backwards onto his ass. It was Mercury, still wrapped in John's coat, and something sharp was gripped in her hand. It was the needle, the same sodding cursed hypodermic that John had taken from Shocka a few days before - the needle capable of shooting more than just drugs into a person's system. She stabbed into the Demon Constantine's neck before he could dislodge her, plunging a red liquid straight into his hellish veins.

"Cunt!" the Demon screamed as he tossed Mercury aside, sending her flailing into the ditch to be caught by John. "What did you fucking spike me with?"

The answer to his question came as he fell to his knees, muscles locking in spasms and convulsions as thick foam came bubbling from his mouth. Choking and writhing on the street, the Demon was attacked by his own body, assailed by whatever the little cum-rag had injected him with. Images played across his mind's eye, visions of each woman he'd murdered over the past week, their pain now his to feel through every agonizing moment of their deaths. The most painful by far was the death of the woman named Marj, Mercury's mother, and the pain was enough to cause even a demon to weep bloody tears.

"How's it feel to be played, you arrogant prick?" Constantine spat as he and Mercury climbed from the ditch. "Have you ever known me to discard me coat like that? There's a reason I wear that bloody thing every sodding day; it's connected to me through sympathetic magic. I knew I couldn't just talk openly with you in the room, so I left a psychic message imprinted on the coat, just waiting for Merc here to put it on and receive."

The Demon could barely hear the words, but the meaning behind them was clear even through the agony he was feeling. John crouched over his convulsing body, the cursed syringe held in his open palm. "This needle is damned, cursed by all of the vile shite it's put into people over the years. Mercury here, if you remember, is an empath. She felt the sympathetic pains of every girl you chopped up, each one leaving a psychic impression in her mind. What she shot you up with was her own blood, amplified by the needle's curse; we injected you with _empathy_ , arsehole! How's it fucking feel?"

"All I wanted," the Demon choked out, "was to be whole again. She promised me..."

"Who promised, who pulled your sorry arse out of Hell?" John asked, lifting the demon up by the lapel of his coat. "Another victim, another girl you've left dead out there in the world?"

"Close…" the Demon answered with a smile through the pain, "the one who freed me from Hell, the one who came up with the plan to make your life a reeking wound…and she..."

"Fucking WHO?" John asked again, slamming the Demon's head against the pavement as incentive.

"She hated you so much, another abandoned lover from years ago," the Demon Constantine laughed with the last of his strength, "she called me up to get her revenge on you, she outlined the plan and plot. She just didn't realize she was going to be me first victim, did she? Her name forgotten by us, I didn't remember her…she hated you and you don't even recall her name. Just another fuck, dead in a ditch, and now she's waiting for me. Waiting in Hell!"

With those final damned words, the Demon Constantine died, overwhelmed by the empathic feelings of death and misery that had been inflicted by his own hands. Mercury came and put her arms around John, trying her best to comfort him. "Kit's okay," she said, "Shocka stayed with her."

"She may be alive," John responded as he and Mercury began the walk back to the house, "but I think she's pretty fucking far from okay."

* * *

Mercury and John came through the front door of the Ryan household, finding Shocka alone in the sitting room, watching the telly of all sodding things. "John, thank Christ," the Orleans expatriate greeted them, standing up from the sofa, "er, that is really you, right?"

"Piss off, Soule," Constantine said as he brushed past the young man, "where's Kit?"

"She's in the kitchen with her sister," Shocka answered, "they're still kinda stunned about all this mess."

"Wait, Uncle John," Mercury said, stopping Constantine before he could enter the kitchen, "take this, it's yours. Thank you for trusting me with it."

She removed the brown trenchcoat from her shoulders, handling it like it was some form of holy relic, an artifact fragile to the touch. She folded it, doubled it over, and handed it back to John who quickly threw it over his arms. "You were perfect, love," he told her, stepping over to place a kiss on the girl's forehead, "just bloody perfect."

John turned back toward the kitchen, not seeing how Mercury blushed from both his kiss and his praise. Shocka noticed, though, and shot her a look of disbelief. "You're kidding, right?"

"Piss off, Shocka," was Mercury's reply as she took a seat, "and turn the telly back on, would you?"

John entered the kitchen and found Kathy and Claire sitting at the dining table, cups of tea smoldering in their hands. Their conversation stopped dead in mid-sentence when he entered the room, both women turning to glare their hateful stares at the man responsible for the misery of the past twenty-four hours. "Kathy," her younger sister Claire said as she placed a hand on Kit's shoulder, "you want I should stay?"

"No, dear," Kit said with a reassuring smile, "John and I have some shite to work through, I think. I'll be up to your room soon, go get some rest."

Claire nodded and stood from the table. She paused as she moved past Constantine, steeling herself for the confrontation. "You're a disease," she said whilst fighting back tears, "and if you love my sister at all you need to leave and never, ever look back."

John said nothing, just lowered his head in shame, as Claire Ryan moved past him on her way up the stairs. "So," Kit began, offering her sister's seat to him, "what's the story? How else is John frigging Constantine going to ruin my life while he's on holiday in Ireland?"

"I can't say how sorry I am about your siblings, Kit," John replied, his head still hung low, "just tell me you believe me when I say I didn't know this was happening until it was too late. When I found out, you were the first person I came to find, I swear."

"So in comes John, riding in like my personal white knight to save the day and rescue the poor wee damsel?" Kit remarked, her tone growing bitterer with each word. "The sad truth of the matter is that I do believe you, John. That's what makes this so bloody hard, right?"

"So where do we go from here?" Kit asked when John failed to respond to her first question.

"I don't know, Kit," he answered sadly, "I just don't fucking know anymore..."

 **The End of Volume 1**


End file.
